Waiting for Rigor Mortis to Set In
by Portrait
Summary: Severus Snape wanted to get rid of his father, right?


The old, worn hickory wand felt cool in Severus' hand. It tumbled over his fingers as he spun it with a recently learned precision. He breathed deep breaths, trying to steady his pounding heart. Now that the long-awaited day was here he was having his first doubts.

Of course he had dreamed of killing people. James Potter. Sirius Black. Mary Macdonald. Albus Dumbledore. Even sometimes his mother. But never had the young man so wanted to taste the blood of someone. Never had he had such a strong – and if Severus was being honest with himself, animalistic – urge to hurt _anything_. But it had a started with his father. And it was all going to end with him.

Who had first taught Severus to hate muggles? Who forced him to live in humiliating, crushing poverty? Who had scoffed and beat at every little part of his innate being? Who had pounded on and shouted at his wife – a pureblooded witch from a semi-respectable family, of all things! Who had poured down the drink and left little money for food? Who made Severus look habitually like a "well-fed skeleton"?

The man who was going to die tonight, that's who.

But Severus was careful. He was newly seventeen, still a sixth year. It was a Hogsmeade weekend but Lucius Malfoy had been kind enough to Apparate him home (the older man was after all his sponsor in being a Death Eater). Severus had the Mark for only a few months now, having been branded the past summer. It was early, but Lily broke his heart and signed the warrant. So here he was. He stood on his doorstep in his dark green robes and pointed black boots, twirling a wand, blinking the "unnaturally" long hair from his eyes in the harsh wind. It was not necessary to kill one's father but kill was what Death Eater's did, right? And being of age meant he could live alone and could do magic so the law could shut it. It was planned. But that didn't stop Severus from being nervous.

In some ways he was still a teenager. He had been stressing about his Transfiguration essay only hours before. He had been thinking about Lily Evans in ways he should (but _shouldn't_) that past night. He had stayed out late with his year mates and drank Fire Whiskey, only that past Thursday. He had detention with Filch Monday night.

And now he was on his doorstep. Ready to murder his father.

His hand went for the doorknob as memories rushed back to him.

_Five. _Skidded across the tiles and out the door to escape the shouting. Tumbling over the cracked sidewalk, scrapping his hands and crying at the blood.

_Ten. _Walking out the door with a renewed rigor. Lily Evans wanted to talk to him in the park so going to the park he was.

_Eleven. _Father was cursing him, his mother and magic as Eileen drug out his trunk. He was nervous and excited, the Hogwart's Express only an hour away.

_Thirteen. _Pounding out the door angrily. Father hadn't come home last night and there had only been one can of soup. He'd made it for his mother but she'd only stared at it, unblinking. It had three days since she had eaten and Severus was worried. He was going for a walk, mad at everyone but mostly himself.

_Fifteen. _He'd spent the night at Malfoy Manor. Mother was ill, not only depression but something with her heart. Father had been yelling. The sadness was literally killing her and if Severus didn't get out of this house it might just kill him, too.

_Sixteen. _Dumbledore had forced the school clean over the winter holidays. The Malfoys were in Sweden. The Lestranges were in France. Evan's family wasn't accepting visitors, Avery was a mess on the best of days and Regulus's family wouldn't have him. Severus wasn't going to go hungry on Christmas. A soup kitchen was only about three blocks away.

Now seventeen. Still so young.

Suddenly, the sound of the telly being clicked on. Severus startled and backed away from the door. The wind was chilling his feet, his bones. The sound of a cap being wretched off. _There's the drink. _The telly got louder and the unnatural sounds of fake laughter assaulted Severus' ears. It shamed him to know so much about muggle things.

From the dark bricks came burped laughter. Then a sentence: "These fuckin' cunts."

A bottle smashed.

From behind him, Severus could hear the wheels of a baby's stroller.

Severus closed his eyes. _My Lord_, he prayed to the Dark, the wanton, the black, withering Mark on his bone-colored skin. It was his time to shine, his time to repay the overlarge bastard for all the hell he'd but his son through. Severus wasn't going to kill him right way. His friends had taught him more – ah, refined – forms of cruelty.

Opening his dark eyes, Severus stared at his front door. The Mark on his arm twitched and so did his lips, into a thin smile. _I've always gone hungry… I've always known the feeling of my intestines painfully curling…_

So maybe he could combine the two? _Feed _the man his innards?

It sounded really good actually. Severus remembered the spells. Reading them in the semi-darkness of early morning, the six-year-old had squealed in horror. But tonight the seventeen-year-old would squeal in glee. He'd smile, too, a real, big, toothy one. When the walls were painted red and the telly was silent and the bottles were closed and his mother got the closer her rotting bones deserved. After he'd had his dinner and eaten until he was fat, after he'd gone back into the dorms and found someone deprived to sleep with him.

Severus would smile a big, fat smile because there would be no more pain. There couldn't be any more pain. The universe couldn't be so cruel, so heartless.

The doorknob was chilly in his hand.


End file.
